


Purple Tulle and Blonde Hair

by hxllowsandhorcruxes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, F/M, Firstkiss, FourthYear, HarryPotter - Freeform, Hogwarts, Magic, Oneshot, Pining Draco Malfoy, dance, dracomalfoy - Freeform, dramione - Freeform, enemiestolovers, gobletoffire, harrypotterandthegobletoffire, hermionegranger - Freeform, kiss, makeout, theyuleball, viktorkrum, yuleball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28693524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hxllowsandhorcruxes/pseuds/hxllowsandhorcruxes
Summary: Draco Malfoy hates the color purple. Except for when Hermione Granger wears it.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 112





	Purple Tulle and Blonde Hair

Draco Malfoy hates the color purple. 

Despises it, really. It's one of those colors that just makes his skin crawl. And just as much as he hates the color itself, he hates purple colored clothing. Because who, in their right mind at least, would look at something purple and say: yes, that's what I want to wear. He can't understand it. Can't stand it. Hates it, like he said before. Absolutely despises it.

But now, as he's staring out across the gradually filling dance floor, he sees it. Sees her. And it makes his stomach do an uncomfortable kind of flip, at which he turns his gaze towards the ground and bites the inside of his lip to distract himself from any other kind of feeling.

She looks stupid, really, in that color. In that dress. It's a kind of bubblegum pink at the top, and gradually becomes more and more sickeningly purple the lower it falls on her body. And there's a bunch of frilly looking tulle at the bottom — a part of the dress that holds his focus for a bit too long. And he wishes that she'll trip on it while dancing. Maybe she'll step on that bloody Sasquatch Viktor Krum's giant feet while they're waltzing. He doubts that she even knows how to waltz. And if she does, she'll look utterly ridiculous doing it.

He's mildly enjoying the thought of it before the sound of the music begins, and he can see her starting to move, Krum's thick, oak tree for arms wrapped around her like she belongs to him. She doesn't. Draco's eyes thin before he even realizes that they have. Before he can wipe the snarl off his face. Because as he watches them — her, dance, he's noticing that she, in fact, does not look utterly ridiculous. She's not a bad dancer, if he's honest.

She's quite the opposite, actually. She moves like the lyrics of a slow, calming song. Like the melody of a piano ballad, the kind Draco learned to play back at the manor. The kind his mother had taught him during his first summer back from Hogwarts. She'd placed her hands on top of his, then, guiding his fingers along the keys until he was good enough to do it on his own. And now, as he watches Hermione Granger, she reminds him of it.

It's the way she sways. Dips. Steps to the beat of the music. The way she smiles and laughs every time Krum spins her around, her hair falling in loose curls around her face.

Her face.

God, he wants to hate that part of her too. Wants to hate the way her nose's arch curves downward flawlessly. The way it wrinkles up when she laughs. The way her lips part slightly when she's thinking, her eyebrows furrowing together into a straight line. The way her eyes crinkle at the edges when she smiles.

The way she smiles.

Bloody hell, he's been trying to hate her smile ever since he saw her step off the train during their first year at school. And now, as he's watching her smile once more, he can feel a pit settling in his stomach. And it makes him want to rip out his own insides. Because what is wrong with him? It's Hermione Granger. The girl he called a filthy little Mudblood. The girl he wished death upon when the Chamber of Secrets was opened for the second time. And the girl he'd tried desperately not to think — dream about for the past four years.

Now, as Krum dips her backwards and runs his hand down her arm, he convinces himself that it's just a stomach big making him want to vomit. He's not sick over her. Over bloody Hermione Granger and her stupid, ugly purple dress. He's not.

And as he forces himself to look away from the scene playing out in front of him, he tells himself that it's because he wants a drink. He's thirsty. That's all. Not for her, though. For a drink of punch. And as he pours it, sipping distractedly at the fruity tasting liquid, he scowls, thinking about how horrible that dress really is. And it doesn't matter how nice it looks around her thin waist. How it clings to her chest, and falls loose around her legs in that ugly tulle. That pink and purple, gaudy looking tulle.

Where did she even find a dress like that? — he wonders. Maybe she got it from the Weasleys. After all, he caught a glimpse of Ron's dress robes, too, if you could even call them that. And it might be even worse than hers is. And he wonders who did her hair. Who tamed it from that bushy, uncontrollable mane of hers into that neat bun. Those curls hanging around her face. He's never seen her wear it like that before, and it's throwing him off.

And he hates it.

He sighs. The song has stopped. But now, another one is starting, and he feels like he can't be here anymore. Like he's suddenly allergic to the room.

So he sets his cup down, and he strolls out into the hallway. And he's glad when he walks out into the space that there's barely anyone there. It's only him, and a few other students wrapped around each other, their mouths smothering their air from entering their lungs. Draco scoffs. Tries not to think about how many times he's wondered how kissing Granger would be. He's sure she'd be terrible at it. Stiff, like the spines of the books she so desperately clings to. Unexperienced. Not like him. He's kissed lots of girls before. Ever since third year, when Pansy Parkinson had started to take a particular interest in him and whatever he was doing. And it was nice, if he was honest, to have someone so utterly obsessed with him. But it was different with Pansy then it would be with Granger, he thinks.

Hermione wouldn't be so...aggressive. He imagines that she'd be hesitant. Maybe she'd even be shaking when their lips first touched. She wouldn't know where to put her hands. When to breathe. How to use tongue.

Yes, he's sure she'd be awful at it. The worst. And he's also sure that she's someone he would never even consider kissing, much less—

"Malfoy?"

The voice catches him off guard, and he spins around to find her standing there. Just standing there. Alone. Completely unaware of the fact that he's just been considering what it would be like to press his lips against hers. To slip his tongue past her teeth. To taste her...

"Granger." He's sure to keep his voice tight. Low. Almost like a growl. She furrows her brows.

"Why are you out here?"

"I could ask you the same question." He crosses his arms over his chest, "Has your date realized that he made a mistake bringing you already?" Hermione's lips twist down into a deep frown. Maybe he's hit a nerve. Good, he thinks to himself.

"I was just getting some air, actually." She clears her throat, "So, if you'll excuse me..."

"Oh no," He calls sarcastically as she turns away, "Please, stay longer."

He watches her shake her head as she walks out into the courtyard, disappearing from sight and leaving him to roll his eyes in peace. Only, he's not in peace. He's dizzy. His head has started to spin for some unconceivable reason, and his bloody palms are sweaty. And his chest. It's tight. Like his lungs are rejecting the idea of new air.

And suddenly, he's walking towards the courtyard. In the same direction that Granger has just gone. And his feet aren't listening to what his mind is screaming at him to do.

Turn around — he repeats over and over to himself — turn around, you bloody idiot.

But he's outside before he can turn around, and the cold chill of the snowy grounds envelops him in an icy embrace. He's glad to be wearing the dress robes, now. They're the only thing keeping him from shivering. But when he turns his head to the side, glancing around to see if anyone is around him, his blood goes as cold as snow in his veins.

Because there she is — again. Just standing alone, leaning back against the stoney wall of the castle with her face buried in her hands. And her shoulders are moving. Up and down with every breath. Except, they're not really breaths. They're more like gasps, sucked in quickly through what seems like sobs, muffled by the palms of her hands pressed against her mouth. And Draco is frozen, much like the icy covering the Black Lake. Because he's never seen her cry before.

Not that he cares. He doesn't. It doesn't matter to him that Hermione Granger is in any kind of pain. In fact, he's spent the last few years trying to get her to feel pain. Trying to wound her with his words. With his insults. With his jabs at her appearance, and her family, and all the things she loves.

But now, as he stares at her, he can't help but take a step forward. And he isn't sure why he's doing it. A second later, and his mouth is open. He's about to speak. And he can't believe what's happening to him.

"Granger." He says quietly, and her face shoots up out of her hands, her cheeks reddened and stained with streaks of tears. She scoffs, shaking her head and wiping her face with the backs of her palms.

"I'm not in the mood to be insulted, Malfoy." Her voice croaks out, sounding choked back by lingering sobs. "So please, if you have even the tiniest shred of decency in you, save it for another time."

"I'm not here to insult you, Granger." He rolls his eyes, "Though the idea of it is especially tempting right now."

Her eyes are focused on the ground. On his feet. Not on his face. Why is he looking at hers? Her lips are slightly pursed as she sniffles, the end of her nose red and freckled.

"Well," She sighs, "If it's so tempting, have at it, then. What's wrong with the way I look tonight?"

Draco's chest swells. Now, he knows exactly what to say. He's been thinking about it for bloody long enough. And she's just given him the perfect opportunity to get everything off of his chest.

"For starters, that color is awful."

"What," She grabs a piece of the tulle, "Purple?"

"Yes, purple." Draco sneers, "And the pink at the bottom. Plus, the fabric is ridiculous. You look like some sort of mixture of cotton candy and an eggplant."

Hermione's lips turn up into a half-smile. Something in Draco's chest lifts. Flutters. He tries to shove the feeling back down into nothingness, but somehow, it persists.

"And your hair," He continues, "It's — It's beyond words."

"Really?" She huffs. "That bad?"

"Yes, that bad."

"Well," She tucks a curly strand of it behind her ear. "Next time, I suppose I'll try something different."

"Thank god." He rolls his eyes, and tears them away. Focuses them on the ground. Because he needs to stop looking at her. Noticing things. New details he's never noticed before. Like the color of her eyes. He's never quite seen that color before. They're brown, but not plain like brown eyes sometimes are. They're...alive, somehow. Glinting. Even in the darkness, he can see it. It's like there's a solar system buried in her pupils, catching his attention as he stares at her for a little too long. And then, it happens.

Happens so quickly that he almost doesn't notice it. But it's there.

She blushes.

And Draco feels his stomach threaten to drop through the floor.

"So, what would you suggest I wear?" She shifts against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. "For next time."

"Anything not so purple would do."

"Noted." She nods, and then it's there again. That blush. And she smiles. He almost can't believe it as it appears. He's made her smile. He's not sure if he can ever remember a time in the past four years when he's made Hermione Granger smile.

"Well, I really ought to be getting back inside." She sighs after a moment, uncrossing her arms and pushing away from the wall. She's only a few feet away from him now, he realizes. Close enough to reach out and touch. Not that he's thinking about that. Because he isn't.

He isn't.

"Right." He raises his eyebrows, trying to appear uninterested, "I'll bet Krum is missing the chance to fondle you in there."

Hermione scoffs at his words, looking slightly wounded as she turns away, shaking her head.

"And what if he is?" She thins her eyes towards him, and he sees it again. That constellation in her eyes. "Is that a problem?"

Draco doesn't respond as she begins to move past him. Doesn't say what he's really thinking as she steps only about a foot away from him, the purple and pink tulle swaying around her feet. But he does feel something inside him snap. Feels it fracture. Because suddenly, he's thinking about something.

The idea of Krum, with his hands in her hair, messing up that infuriatingly perfect bun and twirling those curls around his fingertips. The idea of him touching her. Kissing her. Feeling her lips against his. Her hands on his shoulders, or on the back of his neck, or resting against his chest, since she doesn't know where to put them. And before he realizes what's happening inside his own head, he's furious. Utterly enraged at the thought of it.

He hates it. Hates it even more than the purple color of her dress. Far more.

And without a single second of consideration — without a moment of hesitation or debate — he's reaching for her. And his hand is suddenly closed around her wrist, pulling her back towards him as her face flashes with shock. She hits his chest a second later, staring up at him with wide, confused looking eyes as her lips part slightly.

His hand is still clamped tightly around her wrist, but she hasn't tried to pull away yet. Hasn't even offered up the slightest twitch of resistance. And he isn't sure why. Because there's absolutely no bloody way that Hermione is considering this too. Actually entertaining this insane idea.

But as she gawks at him, seeming to be suspended in shock that he's actually touched her, she still doesn't move away.

"Malfoy." He finally hears her breathe, "What are you doing?"

"It is a problem."

"What?"

"Krum. Fondling you. It is a problem."

Hermione only stares. And Draco does the same. Except now, his hand has loosened around her wrist. Now, it's trailing up the side of her arm, and reaching her shoulder, and tracing across her collarbone. He feels her shiver. Feels her shake at his touch, like her knees are about to buckle. And he can't help but smile.

"I don't understand." She whispers suddenly, making his pulse leap. "Don't you hate me? Haven't you hated me for the last four years?"

Draco considers it for a moment. But truthfully, he already knows the answer.

"I hate the color purple." He says, shifting closer to her. Their chests are pressed against one another. Again, she doesn't pull away. "But I suppose I don't hate you."

He can feel her quivering as he dips down towards her lips. Feels her hands snake up to press against his chest. Hears her gasp quietly as he tilts his had to the side, moving so close to her face that if he spoke again, his words would end on her mouth.

And he hesitates there, letting the anticipation build in his mind. He wonders quickly what it'll feel like. But he figures that he ought to just find out.

"Are you drunk?" She whispers suddenly, and he can feel her words on his mouth. The way they form on her lips. And he can only smirk.

"I wish I were drunk, Granger."

One more inch, and her lips connect with his. Softly at first, like a feather brushing up against his skin. It's barely even a kiss. Just a touch. A whisper, easily lost in the whistling wind around them.

But then, he cants his head to the side. Brings his hand up to the sharp curve of her jaw, feeling her glassy smooth skin slide underneath his fingertips. He opens his mouth, tasting her. Letting her taste him.

And he moans.

Softly, but just loud enough so that she can hear it. And he feels her shiver against him, melting against his figure and digging her fingertips into the fabric of his dress robes. It's like being electrocuted — kissing her. And he realizes quickly that he was wrong before. Because she's not bad at it at all. It makes him slightly angry to admit it, even in his own head, but he's too far in now not to lean into it.

And he does. He leans into her. Hermione Granger. Ghosts his thumb over her cheek, wiping away the half-dried tears that have settled there. Tastes the biting flavor of... mint, on her tongue. Feels hers tangle around his, in a way that seems experienced. Feels like the opposite of what he would have expected from her.

His hands dig into her hair. Mess with the way the bun is pinned back. Twirl the loose strands and twist them around his fingertips. Her hair is soft. Like silk. And a second later, she's doing the same, combing her nails along his scalp and making a tingly, nerve-fraying sensation travel down the back of his neck.

"Bloody hell, Granger..." He mutters against her lips, struggling to breathe between kisses. She's got him gasping. Gasping. It's utterly pathetic, what she's making him do. "Where did all this come from?"

"It's always been here," She smirks against his lips. "Maybe you just haven't payed close enough attention."

He can't help but huff a laugh. Because that's where she's wrong. He has payed attention. Too much attention.

And now, as she buries her face into his chest, giggling quietly, he's afraid that the color purple is starting to grow on him a bit, though he's sure that he'll never admit it to anything but his own reflection in the mirror. And maybe not even to that.

Because the color purple is awful, and he absolutely hates it.

Just not on her.


End file.
